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Tuesday, December 27, 2011

I don’t sleep well anymore.
The moment I crawl into bed, the dread of next morning’s alarm is already
sweeping over me. It is an awful feeling, but the alternative is to
experience a slow defeat under the weight of my own eyelids—two foes that
swiftly subdue and then mock me by planting my nose into the spine of every
textbook. So I choose the former dread over the latter mockery. But
then I don’t dream well anymore. My dreams are less dreams and more
frightful fits of anxiety. In my dreams I confront the shadowy thoughts
I’ve suppressed during the 75-hour work week—the dirt stirred up by the
crashing waves of my subconscious. Here lies the sadness of ailing
patients. Here lies the disapproving looks from attending
physicians. Here lies my frustration with derisive team members. My
anger at sub-standard medical care. My fear of becoming jaded. I
wake intermittently throughout the night, always turning instinctively to
glance at those four glowing digits to make sure I have not overslept.
Then in the brief conscious moments before I sink back to slumber, I swim in
the softness of my pillow and allow myself to be embraced by the warmth beneath
my comforter. In that sacred space between bed sheet and blanket—between
anxious meditation and malignant awakenings, I maintain a grasp of what I know
is still good. So as my nights grow darker, my grip gradually tightens
around these moments of peace. Waiting for the next alarm to sound.
Really, waiting for anything to signal the dawn.